


for stars, innumerable

by cosmicbees



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Bounty Hunter Shiro (Voltron), Explicit Sexual Content, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Violence, there will be a happy ending i promise u this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-08 16:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/pseuds/cosmicbees
Summary: Three years after his capture on Kerberos, Shiro is a bounty hunter gainfully employed by the Galra Empire.“You’re a hunter, aren’t you?” he asks, rubbing his index finger across his bottom lip, “you’re one of Zarkon’s?”Shiro tenses. His job isn’t a secret, but he doesn’t advertise it either, “yeah.”He finds himself subjected to the Galra’s scrutiny for another moment before he turns his back to Shiro and moves through the shipyard, in the direction of the bar.“I’m Yorak,” he throws over his shoulder, “but you can call me Keith.”Shiro jogs after him, “yes to the drink?”Keith just laughs.





	for stars, innumerable

**Author's Note:**

> hello! long time no see! buckle in kids !!

“Fuck you!”

Shiro grinds the heel of his boot into the side of the man’s face, savoring the sound of gravel shifting under his skull as the pressure increases, “what did you say to me, Ta’jra?”

“I said, ‘fuck you,’ you worthless bounty hunter sc--” The Galra’s sentence is cut short when Shiro moves his foot to deliver a kick, swift and sharp, to Ta’jra’s stomach. He coughs wetly, blood gathering on the corners of his mouth while Shiro kneels down beside him. The little alley that this part of the market has been tucked into is nearly silent now, shopkeepers having moved far behind their counters to avoid the showdown happening in the dusty street.

Shiro’s lips curl into something malicious, and he pulls a blaster from where it is strapped to his hip, and presses it to Ta’jra’s temple. His finger toys with the trigger for a moment before he speaks again, “you need to learn your place. You’re a fugitive of the Empire, wanted for treason against your emperor, and you think you have the right to speak to _me_ like that.”

Ta’jra croaks in response, words lost in a bubble of blood from the back of his throat. The slow drag of the Shiro’s blaster muzzle from his temple, to where it pushes against the hollow of Taj’ra’s cheek sparks a moment of fear in the other man’s eyes, pulling a low chuckle from Shiro.

“You’re not worth wasting a good blaster bolt on,” Shiro murmurs, standing up, and wiping the blood from the barrel before tucking it back into its holster. It takes only a few short doboshes for Shiro’s backup to arrive, dragging Ta’jra through the street towards the transport shuttle with his hands bound behind his back.

One of the guards, a harsh faced Galra woman, appraises the bruise blossoming across Ta’jra’s cheek, and the blood drying deep purple-black on his lips, and throws a critical glance at Shiro. “You did quite a number on him, Champion.”

“Sendak will find that he’s still capable of speech.”

“And you will find that he prefers his hunters to leave their bounties intact,” the guard counters.

His patience worn paper thin by the conversation, Shiro snaps, “I am fully aware of what Sendak expects of my work, Vaxas.”

She looks him up and down, easily a head taller than Shiro is himself, and curls her lip. “Then it would be in your best interests to live up to those expectations,” she spits, offering Shiro only a quick nod before turning on her heel, and disappearing into the shuttle.

Praying for a reprieve from the layer of sweat and grit on his skin, Shiro scrubs a tired hand across his face, and looks over to where a shop owner is peeking out from behind a curtain in their stall. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a stiff drink around here, would you?”

 

***

 

“What’ll it be?”

As it turns out, a bar is an easy find on Irodsia, the port and capital city of  Bavgallid IV, a tiny moon made more of dust and grime and filth than it is of actual living people. Just a few streets over from where Shiro had pinned Ta’jra to the dirt, and right beside the planetary shipyard, Shiro strolls into the, aptly-named, ‘Mudhole.’

“Whatever’s strongest,” Shiro shrugs, sliding more GAC than is strictly necessary across the counter in the hopes that the delivery of his drink will be expedited. The bartender, a large Kufheri, drops his gaze to the counter before looking back up, nodding, and turning slowly away from Shiro. The thick layer of slime that trails behind him is enough to make Shiro’s stomach turn, but the ticks pass quickly before he wraps his hand around the proffered drink.

The Mudhole reflects the moon on which it sets, made up entirely of shades of brown and tan made deeper by the thin film of dust that covers nearly every surface. It seeps in under doors and through windows cracked open to offer some small bit of relief from the hot, stagnant air, and as Shiro settles into a dimly-lit corner booth, he’s thankful for the cool drink as it hits his tongue. The taste reminds him of the smell of rubbing alcohol back on Earth, and the cool press of an alcohol wipe against the crook of his arm before a round of blood-tests, but it’s smooth even then.

People come and go in waves, moving in and out of the bar through the main entrance, as well as one which Shiro realizes leads to the shipyard. A thin Olkari, another Kufheri, and dozens of others are littered across the stools and tables in the little building. The haze of alcohol overtakes Shiro’s mind, and after a few too many ticks spent staring into the swirling violet liquid in his glass, a sudden wave of silence spreads through the bar, and a single word, spoken too loudly, draws Shiro’s attention.

“Don’t.”

Across the bar from Shiro, nearly catty-corner to his booth, a man with tense shoulders is seated at the bar, speaking a bit too loudly. Beside him stands a Vaeringian with his hand sprawled low across the seated man’s back. Shiro blinks lazily, watching as the Vaeringian’s lips move, speaking an unrecognizable word that sets the other man--a young Galra, Shiro realizes now, ablaze.

In an instant, the Galra reaches behind himself, grabbing the Vaeringian man’s arm, swinging him around, and holding him in an armlock that looks as if it could snap his elbow in two if pressure were applied correctly.

“I didn’t mean to offend! I just--”

The Galra man looks cold and unimpressed, with disgust seeping into his words when he spits, “don’t you _dare_ call me ‘baby’ you Vaeringian slime.”

The words are cruel, and when he releases his grip on the Vaeringian, standing up straight and tall, Shiro realizes that he is tiny for a Galra, standing what is likely a half-foot shorter than Shiro, even gathered up to his full height.  

He hardly even looks Galra, though. His skin is a pale lavender purple, though he bears none of the markings that so many Galra do, tracing symmetrical patterns across their faces and arms. Were it not for the almost laughably large cat-like ears that twitch with irritation when the Vaeringian scrambles away, Shiro would have thought him to be a different race altogether. Even nearly three years spent surrounded by Galra, and Shiro hardly recognizes this man as one, as slight as he is.

With a huff, the man looks down angrily into a glass filled with fluorescent green liquid and sits back down, reaching in to stir it with a pinky finger. The bar patrons, to their credit, cut a broad swathe around him, leaving a nearly straight shot for Shiro to watch as the stranger nurses the drink in his hands. He levels one server, who swerves too close to him, with a glare that could melt plasteel.

Shiro watches, with fascination itching in his skull, as the Galra sips slowly. The hair that isn’t falling into his eyes falls gracelessly over his back in a thick black braid, reaching down between his shoulder blades. He’s small, yes, slim, but must be deceptively strong beneath the tight fabric of his suit, having upended a Vaeringian nearly twice his size with little effort. He is beautiful, in the way that Shiro has never before known the Galra to be, made up entirely of sharp lines which define the slope of his shoulders and the angles of his face.

For the first time in a very long time, Shiro _wants_.

Nearly so drunk on the bob of the man’s throat as he is on the alcohol sitting heavy in his stomach, Shiro almost misses the moment that the man stands, slipping towards the back door to the shipyard. Shiro barely has time to knock back the rest of his own drink before he slides out of the booth, trailing after the man with a single-minded determination.

Night has fallen now, and the shipyard is large--nearly so much as the city of Irodsia is itself. The Galra moves quickly, ducking behind ships and speeders, and Shiro follows a few paces behind, weaving in and out of shadows and trying his best to move lightly through the night. He loses sight of the other man, and though it is brief, Shiro’s momentary distraction while looking for the man is enough for something huge to step in front of him, blocking his vision and knocking him to the side.

In the blink of an eye, Shiro powers up his Galra arm, and in the bright purple glow of it he finds a massive purple dog looking down at him with bared teeth. He lunges forward, moving the quintessence blade on his hand close to the creature’s neck, when someone speaks behind him.

“Why are you following me?” It’s the Galra man from the bar, holding a blaster less than a foot from Shiro’s head, close enough that Shiro can hear the low whir of the weapon charging as the man’s finger twitches against the trigger.

“I’m not.”

“You were watching me across the room,” the Galra steps closer, ears flat against his skull, “you followed me outside, and now you’re holding a knife to my wolf’s throat.”

“I’m--” Shiro tries to speak, but is cut short by the press of the blaster barrel against his forehead.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” the man spits, “what do you want from me?”

Every part of Shiro’s brain and body tell him to turn his blade on the Galra man holding him at gunpoint, but when Shiro opens his mouth to speak, all that falls out is a weak, “can I buy you a drink?”

The man blinks in shock, “what?”

“I’m Shiro,” he tries again, powering down his arm, and raising his hands placatingly, “I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?”

“Why?” The Galra’s eyes flick to Shiro’s hands, and his grip loosens on the blaster just enough that Shiro knows that any immediate danger has passed.

“I saw you take down that Vaeringian,” Shiro says with a shrug, “color me fascinated.”

The other man hesitates before he tucks the blaster into a holster on his hip that Shiro hadn’t noticed before, and crosses his arms across his chest, “seeing someone face down on a bar floor gets you hot and bothered?”

“The takedown,” Shiro admits flashing a toothy grin at him, “I thought maybe you could teach me something.”

He rakes his gaze up and down Shiro for too long, and Shiro shifts uncomfortably under the appraisal. “Kosmo, it’s fine,” he says over Shiro’s shoulder, presumably to the wolf. “You’re a hunter, aren’t you?” he asks, rubbing his index finger across his bottom lip, “you’re one of Zarkon’s?”

Shiro tenses. His job isn’t a secret, but he doesn’t advertise it either, “yeah.”

He finds himself subjected to the Galra’s scrutiny for another moment before he turns his back to Shiro and moves through the shipyard, in the direction of the bar.

“I’m Yorak,” he throws over his shoulder, “but you can call me Keith.”

Shiro jogs after him, “yes to the drink?”

Keith just laughs.

 

***

 

Two hours in the bar blur together in a haze of conversation and alcohol, and when Keith leans across the sticky booth, chin resting on his hands while he speaks, the only thing Shiro focuses on is the way his lips move.

“Wanna get out of here?” Shiro asks, a bit too bold.

Keith stops mid-sentence, cocks his head, and smirks, “what’s in it for me, hunter?”

Emboldened, Shiro leans across the table, and licks his lips, “a good time.”

 

***

 

The loading door to Shiro’s ship has barely closed behind them before Keith slams him up against the cold metal wall, hands fisted in the front of his jacket. Keith leans in close, wedging his thigh between Shiro’s own, and looks up at him through long eyelashes.

“Thought you promised me a good time?” He murmurs, letting his lips brush across the hollow of Shiro’s throat, “are you just gonna stand around?”

With a growl Shiro moves a hand to the underside of Keith’s jaw, and jerks his face up so that he can press their lips together. The kiss is hungry and wet, and when Shiro’s tongue swipes at Keith’s bottom lip, he opens easily. Shiro’s hand moves, and settles in the loose parts of Keith’s hair, cradling the back of his head and dragging him in closer, closer, closer still until Keith whines into the space behind Shiro’s teeth, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Shiro snakes a hand around Keith’s back to find the zipper of his flight suit, tugging until he is able to slip a hand into the open fabric at the small of Keith’s back. Keith’s skin is hot to the touch, and Shiro trails his palm further down, until it rests on the swell of Keith’s ass.

“C’mon,” Shiro breathes, doing his best to guide Keith out of the cargo hold, back first. His ship is small, and in a few short steps, the two of them are in the sleeping quarters adjacent to the cockpit. Shiro’s bed sits in the center of the room, lit only by a dim purple glow which seeps out from the seams of the walls. It’s unmade, the sheets only loosely thrown up towards the solitary pillow, and Keith huffs out a little laugh when the back of his thighs hit the mattress, and he falls onto it with a bounce.

All of Keith’s harsh lines look soft like this, cast in soft violet light and blurred by shadow. The tight set of his shoulders has slumped into something more relaxed, the furrow of his brow has smoothed into complacency, and his lips are parted, mouth pouty and kiss-swollen. With his suit tugged down around his waist, Shiro has to mask his surprise at the sight of Keith’s chest, marred with scars not all that different from Shiro’s own. He hardly has time to marvel at the sight before Keith’s hand slips beneath Shiro’s shirt, thumb stroking gently over the edge of his hip bone while he looks up with expectant eyes.

He sighs out a single word, a breathy, “fuck,” before he’s reaching for the hem of his own shirt, tugging it up and over his head in a single fluid move. Keith keeps his palm flat on Shiro’s waist the whole time, only letting it twitch towards Shiro’s waistband when Shiro’s own fingers move to tug on his trousers.

“Can I suck your dick?” Keith’s voice cuts through the relative silence, and Shiro chokes out a laugh a the abruptness of it.

Keith’s face crumples into a scowl, and Shiro reaches a hand out to smooth across his forehead, gentling his voice when he says, “yeah, of course.”

The only response he earns from Keith is a hum, but he tugs Shiro in close with fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants, and places an open mouthed kiss to his sternum. He tugs Shiro’s pants down far enough to wrap a hand around his length, and moves to sweep his tongue across Shiro’s nipple.

It takes only a few short strokes of Keith’s hand against Shiro’s cock, too dry and rough in contrast to warmth of Keith’s mouth working against his chest before Shiro aches for more. Keith must sense his impatience, and in an instant, he’s pushing Shiro back, manhandling him until their positions are flipped, with Shiro seated on the bed and Keith standing before him.

“You look good down there,” Shiro murmurs, spreading his thighs wider to make room for Keith, who has now knelt on the floor between them. Keith sighs something out against Shiro’s inner thigh that he can’t quite make out before he takes Shiro in hand again, leaning in to place a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock.

Shiro tries not to think too much of the way his breath catches in his throat at the touch. It has been longer than he’d care to admit since he’d been bedded properly, and even longer since it’d been with someone whose touch he enjoyed. Keith swallows down around him eagerly, mouth soft and slick as he works more and more of Shiro down, going until Shiro nudges at the back of his throat. A self satisfied hum resonates through Keith, and the subsequent chills that run up Shiro’s spine are enough for him to grab a fistful of hair where it’s falling into Keith’s eyes and tug him off unceremoniously.

Keith’s eyes are hazy, self satisfied, and there’s spit covering his chin when he looks up at Shiro, hand continuously stroking lazily up and down Shiro’s cock while Shiro appraises him. The hand not fisted into Keith’s bangs reaches down to brush fingers across the swell of his bottom lip. Keith’s mouth opens obediently at the touch, and Shiro presses two fingers in to the second knuckle, just deep enough that Keith has to open his mouth a touch wider to accommodate the intrusion.

“Do you think you can take more?” Shiro asks, voice low while he pushes his fingers in deeper, “do you think you could take my whole cock? You’d look so pretty choking on it.”

Defiance flashes in Keith’s eyes and he waits until Shiro’s fingers withdraw from his mouth before he tries to answer, “it depends.”

“On what?”

Keith squeezes Shiro’s knee,  smirks, “do you think _you_ can take that much more?”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Shiro laughs, “only one way to find out,” before he’s drawing Keith back in with a gentle touch to the back of his head. Keith mouths at Shiro’s cock, looking up at him through long, dark lashes as he licks a single wet stripe along the underside.

“Fuck, come on, don’t be a tease,” Shiro hisses, and finally, _thankfully,_ Keith wraps his lips around Shiro’s cock again. He wastes no time before he’s pushing himself further down along the length of it again, and before Shiro can fully process it, his nose is nudging at the coarse hair at the base.

The warmth of Keith’s breath as it fans out from his nose and across Shiro’s skin is shocking, sending a thrill skittering across Shiro’s skin. He tightens his grip on Keith’s hair, and draws him back enough that Shiro can see the head of his own cock peeking out from between Keith’s lips. Shiro looks down at the man with a smile and Keith immediately rises to the challenge that Shiro can feel written plainly across his own face. Keith leans in again, hands squeezing tight against Shiro’s thighs when Shiro holds him in place by his hair, not allowing him to move his mouth any further down Shiro’s cock that he already is.

Keith lets out a little whimper, pleading, and Shiro finally nudges the back of his head forward. It is too much all at once, and Keith chokes as Shiro pushes further down his throat, but he doesn’t try to pull away again. Shiro allows him a moment to adjust, and pulls him down further again.

“Look at you,” Shiro coos, stroking alongside one of Keith’s ears with gentle fingers that belie the grip in his hair which is firm, holding Keith’s mouth in place, “you’re doing so well.”

Keith blinks a confirmation, and Shiro notices then how the light catches wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes. Shiro thumbs at the tears before they can fall, and Keith squeezes his eyes shut at the contact, a little moan in the back of his throat acting as the only confirmation he can offer.

Shiro lets Keith set the pace after that, keeping his fingers tangled into the hair at the back of Keith’s head while Keith uses his newfound leeway to swallow Shiro down to the hilt again. Keith is meticulous, laving a practiced tongue over Shiro’s length, and matching the bob of his head with the pull of his hand. The heat coiling low in Shiro’s stomach builds until it’s nearly unbearable, and this is good, yes, great even, but he wants _more_. With a hard tug he pulls Keith off of him again.

Keith opens his mouth to protest, but before a fully formed word can escape, Shiro is pulling him up into a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. Keith gives in easily, bracketing Shiro’s thighs with his own as he straddles him on the edge of the bed, and lets Shiro tilt his head to better slot their mouths together.

When they finally part ways, Keith scowls at Shiro and speaks with a rough voice, “I wasn’t done.”

“And I’m not done either,” Shiro murmurs, leaning back in to mouth at Keith’s neck, “I was right. You looked great with my dick down your throat, but I still plan on fucking you properly.”

Keith groans as Shiro latches his mouth to the sensitive skin on the underside of his jaw, and reaches up to hold him in place, “You can’t--ah, you can’t just say shit like that.”

Shiro smiles into Keith’s skin before breaking away and muttering  “you like it though, don’t you,” against Keith’s ear, “like being used, and being told what to do?”

A shudder courses through Keith’s body, and the little nod that accompanies it serves as an answer enough. Shiro pushes at him until they’re both standing again, and gestures to the flight suit still bunched up at Keith’s waist, “take that off.”

It’s not a question.

Shiro stands back, watching Keith slip out of the tight fabric with his arms crossed over his chest. Keith keeps his eyes fixed sheepishly to Shiro while he undresses, all of the petulance and bravado he’d challenged Shiro with earlier seems to have disappeared now. This Keith is quiet, obedient, and when Shiro maneuvers him so that he’s bent over the bed legs spread wide, he’s pliant.

“That’s it,” Shiro says softly, running a wide palm down Keith’s spine, from the space between his shoulder blades to the small of his back, “you want this, don’t you?”

Keith’s answer is so faint that Shiro almost doesn’t hear it from where it’s murmured into bedsheets, “yes.”

Shiro slaps Keith’s ass. A loud crack breaking through the stillness of the room. “Speak up.”

“Yes,” Keith says louder, firmer, shifting back to chase the sensation of Shiro’s hand, “fuck, yes.”

Shiro smirks, brushing his fingers over the brilliant red handprint developing on Keith’s ass, and moves to the bedside drawer. Keith watches, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth thoughtfully while Shiro uncaps a small bottle of lube.

“Ready?”

Keith props himself up on his elbows, widens his stance again, and lets out a breathy little, “please.”

Shiro is patient, stretching Keith on one finger, then two, and with the press of his third Keith is muttering incoherently, hands fisted roughly in Shiro’s sheets while he cants back into the touch. Keith hiccups as the fingers buried deep inside of him curl, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“C’mon now baby,” Shiro keeps his hand moving, marveling at the way that Keith shifts back, chasing the feeling with rough cries that he muffles into the mattress.

“Don’t--ah,” Keith shakes his head, stumbling over the words, “don’t call me--shit.”

Shiro withdraws his touch, hums a vague affirmation, and then mutters, “this is a touchy subject for you, isn’t it?”

“I am not _your_ baby, hunter,” Keith’s glare is weak but the words are firm.

Shiro busies himself with finding a condom in the same drawer he’d procured the lube from earlier, and shrugs, “whatever you say, _Yorak_.”

“I should’ve just told you my name was Keith,” he groans, burying his face into his hands. It’s a sight to behold: the lithe Galra bent over his mattress, propped up on wobbly elbows with a violent pink flush tinting the lavender of his skin a muted magenta, and muttering into his palms about his given name.

“You doing okay?” Shiro asks, settling a gentle touch to the small of Keith’s back.

Keith responds with a wave of his hand, “yes, Shiro, I’ve been waiting for you to fuck me all night.”

“Good,” Shiro says, sliding his thumb into the cleft of Keith’s ass, spreading him open to watch the stretch of Keith around his cock as he presses in. He’s slow, as gentle as he can be in the heat of the moment, and by the time he’s settled Keith is shaking beneath his touch.

“Shiro,” Keith says weakly, “fucking move.”

“Yeah,” Shiro’s laugh comes out in a puff of air, but he obliges Keith nonetheless. The first little roll of his hips is enough to pull a whine from Keith, a request for more.

Shiro moves slowly, steadily, fingers tight on the ridges of Keith’s hip bones as he pulls him back to meet each thrust of his own hips. Keith is tight, wet heat around him letting out quiet cries every time Shiro buries himself.

“Shir--ah, fuck,” Keith grits out, “give me more.”

Shiro is speechless, the air punched out of his lungs by desire, but he moves so that one hand rests between Keith’s shoulder blades. He presses down until Keith’s chest is flush with the mattress, his arms doing little to support him. Shiro slows his movements, though.

The drag of his cock painfully slow when he leans in close to Keith’s ear, and murmurs, “is this enough for you?” Shiro punctuates the question with a hard thrust, drawing a sharp, keening noise from Keith’s throat.

Any answer Keith might have formed is lost to a drawn out moan when Shiro reaches around with his other hand and wraps it around Keith’s cock. The only words that spill from Keith’s mouth are half-formed curses and pleas for more.

“You--fuck,” Shiro tightens his hand, twists on the upstroke, “you sound so good begging for cock, Keith.”

And Keith falls to pieces under his touch, legs shaking and choking back words that Shiro can’t quite make out while he comes, spilling hot across Shiro’s knuckles. Shiro lets a wave of amazement wash over him at the man under his touch, working him through the orgasm with a firm hand.

“God,” Shiro says, letting his own hips stutter in their movement, any sense of rhythm being lost to the lust that’s buried deep in his gut, begging for release, “Wish you could see yourself right now.”

Keith doesn’t answer, just rolls his hips back, fucking himself onto Shiro’s cock again, and letting out a whimper at the feeling. He does it again, and again, and again until Shiro is boiling over, moving a messy hand to Keith’s hip to hold him still while he comes, Keith’s name ghosting across his lips.

Keith slumps forward, crawling to the center of Shiro’s bed while Shiro disappears to the refresher to clean himself up. When he returns, Keith is sprawled across the mattress, watching him with an eagle eye and an unreadable look crosses his face when Shiro holds out a warm, wet cloth.

“Thanks,” Keith murmurs as Shiro settles down alongside him. The bright flush that had overtaken his body is disappearing now, fading into nothingness while he scrubs the cloth across his body. The silence in the room is thick, heavy, and Shiro, lost in thought, breaks it with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Why did you?” Shiro asks.

Confusion is writ across Keith’s face when he speaks, “what?”

“Why did you tell me your name was Keith, if its Yorak.”

“I go by both,” Keith shrugs, “you’re human, so I thought you’d like the human name.”

Shiro smiles, “Yeah? You see a lot of humans out here?”

It’s a joke, and Shiro knows the answer, but Keith tenses, moves to the edge of the bed, and reaches for where his suit is discarded on the floor, “you’re the first I’ve met.”

“Wait,” Shiro considers for a moment, the bafflement with which his appearance is usually met, an unfamiliar species in an unfamiliar galaxy. Not even the druids were familiar with the human race,“how did you know I was human?”

“It’s a long story,” Keith mutters, pulling the suit up around his shoulders, and reaching for the zipper.

Shiro wants answer, doesn’t want the man to leave just yet, and, he realizes with a pang, wants more than he’s allowed to have. He reaches out to settle a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “You could stay,” he offers, “just for the night. Give me the full story over breakfast.”

Keith shakes his head, the hard set of his shoulders making the motion stiff, jerky. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods, follows him dutifully to the door of the loading bay, “of course.”

They are quiet now, the banter from before lost with the afterglow, but Keith still turns to give him a parting kiss. It is a quick press of his lips, a brush of his hand through where Shiro’s hair falls across his forehead haphazardly, and a murmured, “thanks,” before he departs.

“Call me?” Shiro calls after him.

There’s a flash of white teeth in the dark of the night, just a moment before Keith disappears into shadow.

“Not in your wildest dreams, hunter!”

**Author's Note:**

> chapter count is still up in the air a little bit because im flip flopping on some of the finer details, which would change the count of it, so i will keep you upated as things change!!!! 
> 
> as always i am available mostly on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sheithinlove) and very very rarely on [tumblr](http://patienceyieldslove.tumblr.com/) (though i do check messages)


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